He Needs Me Now
by AineNiamh
Summary: Molly on how she sees Sherlock and why he is worth the trouble she goes through day after day. AWFUL SUMMARY SPOILERS FOR ANYONE WHO HAS NOT SEEN THE REICHENBACH FALL. First Sherlock Fic. Unsure about title


"_'Tis better to have loved and lost, Than never to have loved at all."_

A beautiful quote from a beautiful poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson. People who have gotten their heart broken were the ones to utter this phrase, as if it will save them from the terrible reality of their situation. Optimistic people would use it as a distraction, an illusion that they could easily get on with their lives. However, even the most optimistic person would have a small ping of doubt lurking in the back of their mind, silently taunting them with the realization that it was going to be difficult to move on from a rejection of someone they had loved. Even if you somehow managed to lessen the pain, whether that be with recreational activities or a replaced infatuation, there was always that pessimistic side of you, reminding you that you had failed to have someone return the feelings.

The woman let out a soft sigh and brought the cup up to her lips. Molly Hooper was not an alcoholic, despite the past few weeks causing her to have a drink at least once a week, and that she just so happened to be drinking where she worked. Her drinking was not affecting her work or the pace that she did her work; it only affected her mind. Many people have wondered how someone intelligent would try to drown out their sorrows with alcohol, especially when they knew that the liquid would only enhance the realization of their problems instead of pushing them away. Molly knew this all too well, hearing stories about patients wondering about why nothing could ever be solved with it. Yet here she was, sitting in the dimly lit morgue, taking another swig of the wine she had hoped to save for a special occasion. What better occasion was there than a broken heart and no one to love you?

Perhaps she was being too hard on herself. It was not as if the forensic pathologist was not an attractive woman. Her small size and favorable face was overshadowed by the small smiles she would give and apparent shyness would make one think she was adorable. She rarely wore makeup, except for special occasions in the hopes that he would notice her. She did not to need to wear much, which was more than many women her age, older, or younger could say. When she chose to dress up, she knew what to wear to flatter her frame and show it off modestly. When the occasion was right, the brunette put so much effort into her appearance, if only to make him glance at her differently for once. Was it too much to ask for? It was no surprise that her feelings for Sherlock were more than an acceptable professional level. Even she was sure that he was aware of her feelings, despite his 'spectacular' ignorance on how to handle them. He was only human, as many people had forgotten while working with him on a case, and Molly would try to ignore him brushing her off. Instead, she chose to continue with her work, trying to trick her mind into thinking that what he thought of her was of no importance to her. It was only recently that she built up the courage to tell him that she was frustrated with him. This never ended well on her part, as Sherlock would be able to find exactly was he was looking for, leaving Watson behind to apologize for him. He never apologized to her, except once on Christmas, after insulting her for a perfectly wrapped gift, leaving a small kiss on her cheek...

_Dammit_, the woman thought to herself, staring an empty cup. Thinking about how Sherlock treats her made her finish the entire glass without thinking. Shaking her head, she reached for the bottle and watch the foamy dark crimson liquid fill up the cup. It was a dessert wine, something she had bought the last time she was on holiday. She had intended to bring it with her on Christmas at Sherlock and John's flat, but ultimately forgot about it. It was good that she had forgotten it in the end, as the consulting detective would have made another crack at how the red wine was symbolic and only proved to everyone that she had feelings of love for someone. Why did he have to ruin so much for her? Was she that repulsive to be around? No, that cannot be it, as he would always seek Molly's help on a case. For a moment, the small woman believed it to be jealousy that she wanted someone else. At least, it had seemed so the last time she introduced him to a potential boyfriend (to which Sherlock pointed out that he was gay, and later on it was revealed that he was actually Moriarty, the consulting criminal and one of the most dangerous minds the world has never seen before). For a split second, she swore that she saw his eyes betray his normally calm and blank face to let her know that he did not approve. Then his eyes faded back to black and cold, as they always did when he was in her presence and sent chills down her spine.

His eyes, his beautiful entrancing grey eyes that had captivated the woman. Every brush-off, every rejection, every ruined moment was worth the chilling look in his eyes. Many people would only see the darkness and push him away as far as they could. However, when Molly saw them, she was not afraid, but intrigued. She saw it as a special occasion for his eyes to light up with excitement and had the pleasure of seeing them do so once or twice. Everything was worth it for those eyes. She had been there when they had deceived the most, when he believed that no one was around to see the sadness they threatened to show. Even though John had missed it, Molly did not. Whenever Sherlock was in the room, her eyes remained on him, waiting for a change in the pattern of coldness he tended to give off. She tries to get him to open up to her by telling him she already knew he was hiding something from his friend (colleague?). This, as always, did not do much good for the pathologist and she went home crying that night. _I don't count in his life. I never will._

_Forget this_. There was no reason for her to wallow in depression because of Holmes. It would do her no good to continue drinking while she was still at work. It was very unprofessional of her to do such a thing. She finished off what was left in her cup (less than half) and winced slightly at the strong yet sweet taste. Another night all alone, but she did not care. Tiredness was starting to creep up on her, whether it was the alcohol or the very early morning. She threw the cup in the nearest trash bin, and found the cork to the bottle, firmly pushing it back on. No reason to finish the wine here tonight. Collecting her things, she carefully placed the bottle back in her bag and flung it over her shoulder. Despite the slight intoxication clouding her brain, Molly quickly checked that her equipment was all put up and ready for her in the morning. After a quick inspection, the lights were turned off and she made her way to the door. Without thinking, she felt around her pockets to make sure she had enough money for a taxi home. Letting out a sigh, the brunette barely touched the door when a familiar voice spoke out and she jumped, throwing a hand to her fast beating heart.

"You're wrong, you know." Molly turned to see a tall with curly dark hair. Sherlock? What was he doing here? Normally whenever he needed her help, he would come in through the doors with his faithful friend trailing behind him. However he was alone and in the dark, making Molly feel uneasy. Something was off with him, something terrible had happened but why would he come to her? "You do count", the deep voice replied back to her, as if he were answering the unspoken question, a talent that he was known for. "You've always counted, and I've always trusted you." The woman was frozen in place, in small shock at what the man was telling her. Trusted her? The more she thought about it, the more she realized that it must have some truth behind it. Whenever he needed to go to the morgue, it was always her that he would seek out. Molly checked with several of the other forensic pathologists and many of them had never actually met Sherlock Holmes. He would always come to her. Suddenly, the man in question turned around to face Molly, his voice changing slightly in that it had some emotion to it this time. "But you were right. I'm not okay."

Hearing those words broke her heart all over again. Those eyes that she longed to see, the ones that made everything Sherlock did worth it were full of emotions that she knew all too well. Sadness. Worthlessness. Worry. It was quite strange to see all this in a man that rarely smiled unless he was amused by someone else's stupidity. This time, Sherlock Holmes, the man who never made his emotions apparent to anyone was surrendering to the woman who always helped him. Unusual it was to see someone so vulnerable. It was not like him at all, and it frightened her to see him like this. However, Molly could not show that she was scared, despite knowing that he could read her like a book. No matter what he did to her, whether he was aware of it or not, she wanted to help."Tell me what's wrong", she found herself saying, as if her mind was also concerned about the detective. Without Watson by his side, Molly had to admit that he was not the same. However, she knew he needed someone or something, otherwise he would stayed at home. Despite the shakiness in her voice, she struggled to keep her face calm but reassuring in hopes that whatever his problem was, she could fix it.

"Molly." God, the way he said her name made chills run up and down her spine. However, they were not as chilling as his next words. "I think I'm going to die." He spoke it simply, as if he were simply telling her a Happy Christmas, but his eyes gave it all away. The Great Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective who was able to solve any crime, able to see through anyone but was careful enough to not allow anyone to see him, was afraid. Terrified, even, if Molly had to guess. He walked towards her slowly, but Molly's eyes were in shock. _Die? No, he can't._He just can't. Death was inevitable but he just could not die right now, right?

"What do you need?", she asked him quickly, feeling slightly stupid at her choose of words. Why on earth would she say something like that to him? He just admitted to her that he was going to die today and she questioned him like she was simply going out to get groceries. Still, she stood her ground, trying not to shake as he walked toward her.

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am, everything that I think I am", he asked her, slowly allowing her to see more fear in his eyes. "Would you still want to help me?" Another emotion passed through his eyes, but it was not fear. It was desperation. He was practically pleading, begging Molly for her help, but at the same time was questioning if she would ever want to help him. It was awful to see him like this, even though the woman had prayed that she would one day be allowed the honor of knowing what was going on with him. However, this was not how she imagined it, seeing the fear and desperation in his eyes. Some would be relieved to see the human side of Sherlock but Molly knew better than that. Deep down, she still wanted to see the side of him that showed no fear to anyone. In her eyes, he was above desperation and rarely asked for help that he could not already get. Something in his eyes told her that she was perhaps the last person he could count on. There was no way that she was going to pass up this moment.

Without hesitation or worry, she kept her face firm before replying, "What do you need?" Sherlock needed her now, for more than examined a corpse or borrowing her microscope without her permission. She kept a tight-lip, as her eyes reassured him that she would help him no matter what. That was just something you do for someone you love, even when they did not return the feelings.

Sherlock kept his eyes locked on hers and walked closer to her. She was almost scared at the closeness, but tried to not let it show. Finally he spoke out once more, "You." His voice had cracked a little, surprising the brunette. Whatever it was, whatever he needed help with, it was bigger than both of them. There was so much pressure on her and a temptation to turn and run before he could cause anymore harm to her. _But those eyes_. Those eyes pleaded with her and she knew she could run from him. He had John, but for some reason, he did not have him. She was almost flattered to be next in line to help him with whatever problem he needed. Not just a problem. He need her, asking for her specifically, and letting her know that she counted. She was right, and the pathologist knew that he hardly admitted out loud that anyone was right or that he was wrong. _This is it. Whatever he needs me for, no matter if it causes my heart to break into pieces, I need to help him._ Molly said nothing, but nodded her head in silence, readily awaiting her instructions to help him. It was not going to be easy, but then again, nothing was easy with Sherlock Holmes.

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><p><em><strong>Hello everyone! Thank you all for reading my first ever Sherlock fic! I apologize for some of the awkward wording or possible out-of-character moments, as I actually wrote this at three in the morning. I'm not sure why I wanted to write this in Molly's point of view but I did it anyway. Yes, I had her drink at work but don't give me crap about it. Anyway, review please, and a big apology to my readers awaiting a new chapter of Fantastic Creatures. I shall be finishing up the chapter soon and I apologize for the long wait. Until next time!<strong>_


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